Hide
by BeginAgain46
Summary: He was tired of pretending that she didn’t matter. DT


**Hide** by **saulalovin**  
A **Numb3rs** fan fiction

**Pairing:** Don Eppes and Terry Lake  
**Summary:** He was tired of pretending that she didn't matter.  
**Disclaimer:** Numb3rs + characters (equals) not mine.  
**Spoilers:** None.  
**Author's Note:** My first _Numb3rs_ fan fiction. Please read and review. Sorry if they're a little (or a lot) OOC. And Terry is still there. She is! Special thanks to Rain and Michelle and Nina for all their support.

It was a rare night when hardly any agent was working late at the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Los Angeles branch.

Tonight, however, was one of those nights. The custodial staff had come and done their jobs, and even they had left. The entire building was empty…almost.

Don Eppes sat silently at his desk, staring off into the darkness. His breaths came out slow and shallow, barely breaking the stillness of his surroundings. He looked exhausted, with his shirt and tie rumpled, his hair messy from having run his fingers through it too many times and large bags under his eyes. His feet were propped on his desk as he sat slouched on his seat, and his jacket was tossed carelessly on the arm of his chair.

He couldn't go home. Not yet. What good would it do, anyway? All he would do at home was lie in bed and toss and turn, unable to fall asleep. Exhaustion meant nothing to him – not while his thoughts whirred nonstop in his head, anyway.

He had nearly lost her today. Her – _Terry_ – and Charlie.

He scrubbed at his face with his fists, frustrated. They – _he_ – had made a mistake, and two people he cared about had nearly died because of it.

He wasn't supposed to make mistakes. FBI agents didn't make mistakes. They couldn't afford to screw up, to be wrong.

But here he was.

It was supposed to be just another one of those cases. The LAPD hadn't been able to apprehend a serial killer who had taken the lives of ten people over the course of five weeks. They had absolutely no leads, and the FBI took over the case. As usual, Charlie had lent them his mathematical prowess, and with his help, they had predicted when and where the killer was most likely to strike next.

It was all supposed to go fine. But the next thing he knew, he had gotten a call while on the way to Union Station, where Charlie had said the killer would strike again.

Charlie and Terry had gone to a residential area instead – Monterey Park. Apparently something had been wrong with Charlie's formula, and it wasn't at Union Station that someone would be killed. He had managed to contact Terry and they had gone over there as quickly as they could.

That's when chaos had ensued. As far as he could understand, the two had been overpowered. It wasn't just one guy, but a group of copycats. Shots had been fired, and by the time the back-up Terry had requested earlier had arrived, a civilian had been hit. Terry had gotten shot in the arm, and another bullet had grazed Charlie's leg.

After making sure they were both okay – neither had been seriously injured, thank God; neither had had to stay overnight at a hospital, either – he had left, wracked with guilt.

He should've known they were going in the wrong direction. He should've asked Charlie to go over everything again. He should've double-checked all the data. He should've realized that it wasn't the original killer's work, but that of copycats.

He slammed his fist on his desk angrily, hard enough that the things on top jumped up slightly.

They could've been killed, and it was all his fault.

What kind of a partner was he? What kind of a brother? He should've been there to protect them.

He ran his hand across his face again and felt the stubble on his chin. Suddenly he felt very, very old, and began to wonder if it was all worth it: the long hours, the sleepless nights, the ever-present threat of danger…

The possibility that one day, he will be incapable of protecting the ones he loved.

That day had nearly come. It could've been _today_.

His gaze fell on a clock on the wall with hands that glowed fluorescent green. 2:35AM.

He smirked in spite of himself. _Scratch that – it could've been yesterday_, he told himself.

As quickly as it had come, the smirk disappeared as something – some_one_ – drifted into his thoughts.

_Terry_.

He had nearly lost her today, and he realized that the fear of losing her equaled the fear of losing Charlie or his father.

Swallowing with great difficulty (his throat was dry), he felt a pang in his chest as he finally admitted that she was important to him – more important, really, than she should be.

He was tired of pretending that she didn't matter.

"Don?" a soft voice called.

Startled, he quickly moved his feet off his desk and switched on the light. In the weak light he managed to make out a pale, tired face, framed by strands of brown-blonde hair.

"Terry," he said, concern etching his voice. "What are you doing here? You should be at home, asleep." He cringed. He sounded like her mother or something.

She didn't seem to notice, and stepped closer to him slowly and more into the light. He noticed her arm was in a sling, and he took note of her careful movements so as not to pain her arm further. "I couldn't sleep," she explained, "so I came here. I had a feeling you'd still be here."

"I was just…finishing up some things," he said lamely. It didn't sound very convincing to him, and it didn't to her, either, judging by the look she gave him.

"Right – finishing up some things. In the dark." She gingerly pulled up a chair, and remembering his manners, Don helped her into it. She smiled at him in thanks. "You should get some sleep. You look terrible. Worse than me, even," she ribbed gently.

"Gee, thanks," he said, and managed to crack a small smile.

They looked at each other for a while in silence, until Don cleared his throat nervously. "I, uh… I'm sorry about your arm."

"It wasn't your fault," she said, shrugging, and winced, immediately regretting the brief and sudden movement of her injured arm and shoulder. "You weren't the one who charged in there without another agent."

"I should've known," he argued weakly.

"How? You're a good agent, but you aren't _that_ good." She gave him another smile. "Lighten up, Don," she urged.

"It could've been much worse," he reminded her, refusing to be distracted by her attempts at wit.

"It _could've_, but it _wasn't_," Terry retorted. "There's a difference."

He couldn't help himself – he reached out and took her hand, squeezing it lightly before letting go. "I could've lost you," he said almost inaudibly.

She heard him loud and clear, and her breath caught. She smiled softly. "I'm still here."

He stared at her helplessly for a beat, and after some slight hesitation, plowed on forward. "I… Terry, I…" His eyes locked on hers, and they begged her to understand that he just couldn't put it to words yet. But everything he felt, everything he wanted to convey…it was all there, in his eyes.

"I know. Me, too."

Without saying anything further, he encircled his arms around her waist, carefully avoiding her injured arm. He gently pressed a kiss into her hair, one on her forehead, and one on her cheek. She then turned around to face him and met his kiss halfway, finally pulling away with a soft, happy sigh moments later.

"Let's go home," he said.

**THE END**


End file.
